She tightened her coat around her. It was thin, the zipper had bust long ago and the padding had either worn down or fallen out, but the other layers -- the tattered fleece jumper, stained, ripped; the two blouses, thin but intact -- stopped her from freezing. It was dark, the night had been drugged with a deep blackness and an unshakeable cold. She rested against the cold wall behind her, straightened out her back against the roughened brick. Up ahead, across the other side of the underpass, a small collection of men huddled around a fire, swapping grunts and sips from a bottle of cider. They were old, decrepit, on their way out, she doubted they had much life left in them, doubted all of them would make it through the winter. She had shared smiles with them before heading to her current spot, she hadn’t wanted to linger, didn’t want to remain in their lustful eyes for long; they weren’t her type -- too old, too desperate. She didn’t wait long before she was joined by someone else, someone who came stumbling through the gloom, half dragging his left leg behind him, appearing out of the darkness, through the mist, like a plague-ridden movie villain.
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